When I was in middle school in the early 1980s, a new Rp5,000 note was released. On it was a picture of the peculiar-looking traditional ancestral houses of the Torajan people in South Sulawesi.
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These ancient houses, or tongkonan, were characterised by their boat-shaped, saddleback roofs and built on stilts, with three storeys each signifying the upper world, middle world, and underworld.
I’ve always been fascinated by places with unique histories or stories, and this instantly triggered my curiosity. But travelling there in those years was out of the question – there were no flights to Toraja, and going by car was challenging because of the poor road conditions.
Still, I never forgot the houses, and over the years I learnt more about them.
Traditional Torajan villages were usually divided into three ‘categories’: There was the tongkonan layuk, which was the house of the highest authority and used as the centre of government. Tongkonan pekamberan were owned by noble families, while tongkonan batu were where ordinary villagers lived.
Journey to Toraja
In Indonesia’s Toraja Highland, tongkonan can be found in Ke’te’ Kesu’ and Desa Pallawa. Of the two, Ke’te’ Kesu’ is much more touristed because it’s closer to the airport and has better road conditions. But while Desa Pallawa is further away and the roads a little bumpier, the houses here are older – some are believed to be over 200 years old – and worth the trek.
My journey to Toraja began with a two-and-a-half hour flight from Jakarta to Makassar in South Sulawesi. I had to stay overnight in the city to catch the plane to Toraja in the morning – an hour’s flight with a breathtaking view. The final stage of the trip was a half-hour drive to the site.
Entering Desa Pallawa, I was welcomed by 11 Tongkonan houses, rising proudly towards the sky despite their age.
Their erectness and the wild vegetation sprouting from their roofs made them seem like living creatures – and in fact, these structures are often called ‘houses with souls’.
In particular, my eyes were drawn to the delicate structure of the roofs, made out of intertwined bamboo, which must truly have been a labour of love to build.
Another distinctive feature of tongkonan are their elaborately carved facades, which typically have buffalo horns running up the struts. The horns indicate the wealth of the owners, because Torajans sacrifice a buffalo for nearly every ceremony from birth to death, with each buffalo costing thousands of dollars. This ritual is a time-honoured tradition that continues today.
While Desa Pallawa, for the large part, is no longer a functioning village, the area is well maintained. According to a local man I spoke to on site, the houses now belong to a prominent family who lives in Jakarta and helps preserve these houses.
Connecting with the past
As I stood in the middle of the grounds, my mind wandered back to what the village must have been all those years ago. These spiritual dwellings witnessing every milestone of the Toraja people’s lives from birth to death; silently protecting their human occupants; playing host to celebrations and feasts for everyone.
I understood then why tongkonan are called ‘houses with souls’: They were the center of every aspect of their occupants’ lives.
Just then, an elderly lady – one of the rare few residents in these tongkonan – came out of one of the houses and approached me with a warm smile. She invited me into her home, a modest but clean and cosy space. Our conversation was halting because she only spoke the local language of Sa’dan Toraja, not Bahasa Indonesia, our national language. But somehow, we understood each other.
Through her, I imagined what life must have been like in an earlier age – her whole family, sitting in a circle as we were, laughing together over a meal.
Too soon, it was time to go. It had taken me more than 40 years since I was first enchanted by these legendary houses to journey to the sacred land of Toraja, but being able to finally stand in their midst was a dream come true.
Now, just as the ‘houses with souls’ have always protected their occupants, I feel fiercely protective of these tongkonan. And it’s my hope that others who visit and build a personal connection with them will do the same, too.
